Cherry Pop Valentine

by Debbie McGowan

  In the bedroom, I flopped uselessly onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking about nothing. My phone vibrated. I ignored it. It stopped and then started again. And again. I got up and turned it off. I was parched, my head was banging from dehydration, which was the first time it registered that I’d only drunk a bottle of beer since this time yesterday morning. If nothing else, I needed fluid.

  I pulled on a pair of cutoff jeans and went to get a drink of water, the bitter aroma of yesterday’s coffee rank in the air. I switched off the filter machine and tipped the dregs from the pot. I shoved the two dirty mugs in the dishwasher, plodded back to the living room, sat on the couch, sipped my water…just going through the motions, trying not to think. Trying not to say if only, because it was done. No point fretting about it. I returned to my computer, closed Sven’s email so I didn’t have to look at it, and returned to my Google search. Everyone was being so supportive of the band, and I felt such a fraud.

  When the knock came at the door, I considered ignoring it. It wasn’t going to be Sven, and I didn’t want to see anyone else. But that knock was persistent. And rhythmic. Dan. I forced my arse up out of the chair and let him in.

  “You look like shit, Flav.”

  “Yeah, cheers for that.”

  “Mind, you’re not the only one.” Dan followed me into the kitchen. I took two bottles from the fridge and handed one over. Dan was watching me, waiting for me to look his way.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  “Not as angry as yesterday. It was you, wasn’t it? You uploaded that video.”

  I nodded.

  “On purpose?”

  “What the hell? Of course not on bloody purpose!”

  “Maybe you should tell Sven that.”

  I shook my head. “There’s no point.”

  “So you’re just gonna let him get on that plane on Saturday, throw all our hard graft out the emergency exit on his way back to Sweden?”

  “What do you suggest I do?”

  Dan tilted his head to one side and gave me an isn’t it obvious? look. I swigged my beer, stalling for time.

  “Look, Flav, I’m not going to bullshit you. Much as I care about you guys and hate seeing you miserable, I’m here for the band. If you’re not prepared to do it for the two of you, do it for the four of us. It’s taken too much hard work to get this far and lose it just as we’re hitting the big time.”

  I couldn’t look at him. I wanted to tell him to screw the band. Screw it all. What did I care? I’d already lost everything that mattered, and all because I wasn’t paying attention. I was too eager to get the pre-release video online to check I was uploading the right thing. It was the band’s fault I’d lost Sven, so no. Screw trying to fix it for the band.

  Dan finished his beer and left the empty bottle on the counter. “I’m gonna head back,” he said. “Leave you to think it over, but don’t take too long. The single’s out in two days.”

  I nodded, not trusting my mouth, and saw Dan to the door. I finished my beer and opened another, taking it through to the living room. I needed the distraction of TV, and I needed music, risky though it was. On the plus side, Dan had shaken me out of my miserable hopelessness, because now I was fucking furious, with him as well as myself. Did he really expect me to fix this just for the sake of the band? I cranked up the volume, not giving a shit about the neighbours, who only ever talked to us to complain about the noise anyway. I needed to stay angry. Angry was better. I heard the man in the apartment above bang on his floor, and turned up the music some more. Selfish, I knew. But that was how I was feeling. Selfish.

  Still, I couldn’t get Dan’s words out of my head—it’s taken too much hard work to get this far. What was going on now was down to me, not anyone else, and I couldn’t bear any more of the burden of guilt. So I’d messed up my relationship by uploading a home sex video; Mica had cleaned up after me, and I was grateful to her for that. If I didn’t try and fix things with Sven, it wouldn’t just be the band’s hard work I’d be wasting. It would be hers, too.

  Dan was right, of course. The single was out in two days, and then Sven was leaving me for good. I needed to fix this, and soon.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four

  I’d offered to go to Dan’s—neutral territory, or as neutral as it got—but Sven agreed to come back to the apartment. He knocked on the door, and for a few seconds I’d swear my heart stopped beating. He was making it clear he no longer lived there, but it was our apartment, and without him I didn’t want to be there either. I opened the door, and the second I saw him, I knew. I couldn’t let him leave. I just couldn’t. I loved him. And I wanted him so badly. He hadn’t shaved, his hair was a mess, and he was wearing one of Dan’s t-shirts, which was crazy big on him, but he still made my dick stir and wasn’t that just the saddest bloody thing ever?

  I stepped aside, and he came in, waiting for me to close the door. I turned and met his steel-eyed gaze. I attempted a smile. He half-blinked, disdainful, trying not to sneer.

  “Do you want to fuck?” he said, rendering me completely speechless. “You seem to think it will fix everything, so why not let’s just do it here against the door?”

  “Sven, I—”

  “We could even open the door and let the world watch, eh?”

  What could I say to that? That was true Sven—straight to the point, and yet…he was pulling that ludicrous t-shirt over his head. Was he actually going to do this? I watched, disbelieving, as he threw the t-shirt to the floor and started unbuttoning his pants.

  “What? You thought I was having a jab at you? Maybe I was, but let’s fuck first. It will make things so much less complicated.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. I wasn’t sure what I didn’t know—if it was the right thing to do? If it would make things less or more complicated? If I wanted us to fuck when Sven was leaving me in two days? All of the above?

  Sven laughed bitterly at my indecision. He advanced on me, and I backed off. I didn’t mean to. He stopped and looked me up and down. “You really don’t want to fuck, Flavier?” His hands were either side of my waist, and he was drawing me in. It had to be a mind game of some sort.

  “I always want you, you know that.”

  “Then let’s do it,” he said. He was already unzipping my pants, pushing them down, along with my boxers. I obediently stepped out of both and gave up my t-shirt without a fight. He took a step away and looked me over again, a sad smile forming on his face, and then it was gone, replaced by that same determined resolve I had fallen for ten years ago. Whether I thought it was a good idea or not, we were going to fuck, right here in the hallway of our apartment. He reached down and fished in his pocket, pulling out the cherry lube he always carried everywhere, in case we found an opportune moment.

  “Do you remember the last time we used this?” he asked, spraying both my dick and his. The bottle dropped from his hand and rolled across the floor.

  “Yeah,” I said. We were at a late showing at the cinema, and there was just us and two other people many rows in front of us. Sven had sat on my lap, still watching the film, using his rectal muscles to bring me to orgasm. It wasn’t the first time—he worked them out on me on a regular basis—but it had been a massive turn-on, doing it so stealthily. When I came, I nearly gave the game away and had to bite his shoulder. Then he slid off me, back into his seat, and jerked off into his empty Coke cup.

  I watched him now, his hands clasping our dicks together, working us both at the same time, but even though I was hard as hell, I wasn’t in the mood. What I’d imagined would happen was that he’d arrive, we’d drink coffee and have a civilised conversation about the needs of the band. We’d clear the air as much as possible, find a way to get through the live performance and the launch party. I was leaving dealing with us until after that—maybe by then, I would have persuaded him to stay. Maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I was just being a coward. But this? I knew what this was, and I didn’t want it. Because this was fucking
goodbye.

  So no kissing, no words, just this soundless lust. He released his grip on us and turned to the wall, pressing his hands to it, sticking his arse out and spreading his legs. He waited; I gazed at him. My beautiful Scandinavian waif, with his blue-flame eyes, his sharp cheekbones, the delicate point of his chin. I wanted him, wanted to be inside him, but not just for this moment. I moved behind him, smoothing my palms over the cool skin of his buttocks, leaning in to place a kiss between his shoulder blades, my lips lingering against the vertebra on which they came to rest. Life without him was nothing. I could not do this.

  “No,” I murmured, and then forced the word out definitively. “No, Sven. Not this.” I moved away, gathered my clothes and went straight to the bathroom, quietly pushing the door to and leaning against it. God, I didn’t want to cry, I didn’t want to cry, damn it! I swallowed hard and put my clothes back on as quickly as I could, because I knew he would be dressing, too, and when he was dressed, he would walk out that door. I had to stop him.

  He was opening the front door as I got there. “Sven, wait. Please.” I didn’t care that I sounded pathetic and desperate. He stopped and looked at me.

  “Wait for what, Flavier? I know you didn’t do it on purpose, and I can forgive you for that, if it is what you want. But it doesn’t change a thing. We are over. It is as hard for me to say that as it is for you to hear it.”

  “I don’t want you go.”

  Sven closed the door and turned to face me, his palms held up in a questioning shrug. “Why not? Because you like how we look together? Or because it’s good for publicity?”

  “So you do think I posted the video on purpose.”

  “Not at all, but if you weren’t caught up in this media craziness, it would never have happened. You remember when we had dinner, and I asked you if we could get somewhere to live together? I was so worried you’d tell me no. I couldn’t figure you out. To hear you say yes was the most wonderful thing. And then you proposed to me. Tell me, what was my answer?”

  “Yes,” I said, not really understanding why he was making me go through all of this when he’d already made his decision.

  “And yet now you’re waiting for me to return your proposal. You call me here to work out how we can fix us for the sake of the band, not for us.” Sven blinked a couple of times and tears rolled down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry, Flavier.”

  He opened the door, and I watched him walk away, out of our apartment, out of our life together.

  ***

  The next time we saw each other was the following afternoon—the day before release day. We were rehearsing at the studio, and for the first time since we started the band, we needed a security detail. We had two guys stationed at the front door and one at the fire exit. It would have been exciting at any other time, but I was conscious of everything I said and did, subtly trying to prove Sven wrong, because he was wrong. If the band folded right then and there, I wouldn’t care, so long as I still had him in my life.

  We went through the song over and over again, and it sounded shit. I couldn’t get it right, kept splinking chords. Sven missed cues, forgot words. I could see Jon getting agitated, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Dan cursed under his breath, and then out loud. On the sixth attempt, he tossed his sticks and stormed off. Mica went tearing after him. I rested my head on my arms and pretended none of it was happening.

  Twenty minutes later, Mica appeared, sans Dan. “He’s taking a leak,” she said.

  He returned, solemn-faced. Without a single word to anyone, he picked up his sticks and clicked us in before he was back behind his kit. We played the song through to the end, note-perfect and soulless. Then we ran through that stupid staged proposal, with Sven delivering the rose to me at my piano, except he was using his mic in lieu of a rose.

  Cari—one of Sven’s friends from uni and a fellow art photographer—had watched the entire travesty through the window of the control room. She owned a small photography studio and was forever trying to persuade Sven to go in with her. Tomorrow, he was going back to Stockholm, so I knew she was there for moral support—Dan had apparently said the same to him as he had to me, about putting the band first, except where I had tried my best to do that, Sven had told Dan to go fuck himself. So Sven was now staying with Cari. At least I knew he was safe. Small consolation.

  When Sven and Cari left, I kept my eyes averted, concentrating far harder than I needed to on putting the cover on my piano. I couldn’t bear to watch him go, knowing that I would see him only once more. Jon patted me on the back. I looked up, and he gave me a sympathetic smile.

  “I call in later, see how you’re doing.”

  That left just Dan and me. I had nothing to say to him, or nothing I should say. He’d always been the same—the band came first—which was why he screwed around, sleeping with groupies, acting up, generally living the full rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, and I didn’t usually begrudge him that. I picked up my kit bag and keys and was at the door before he spoke.

  “Flav. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  I turned back and waited.

  “I was out of line saying what I did. The band—it’s all I’ve got.”

  My anger flared. “Yeah? Well, that makes two of us.” I turned away again and opened the door.

  “Sorry, mate,” Dan called after me.

  I muttered under my breath, “Not fucking accepted.” Mica tried to intercept but I raised my hand to warn her off, walked straight past the security guy and through the camera clickers to my car.

  “Flav, how do you feel about the hacker who posted the video?”

  “Are you aware the police have arrested someone?”

  “How are you feeling about tomorrow’s release?”

  “Has Sven called it o—”

  I slammed the door and started the engine, ramming my foot to the floor as I shifted into first and moved off, scattering pap in my wake. I didn’t stop, didn’t think about where I was going. I just drove, mindlessly. How was I going to get through the next twenty-four hours? I needed to find a way—drugs, maybe? Or vodka? I gave some serious consideration to the latter, but I couldn’t play under the influence. Not of drugs, nor alcohol, nor Sven. The whole thing was a farce.

  I arrived back at the apartment and yet more photographers, but I didn’t care. They couldn’t take anything more away from me than I’d lost already. One guy was standing right outside the main door to the building, his arms stretched to block my access. I shoved him out of the way, hard, and heard him yell he was going to report me for assault.

  “Go for it,” I spat.

  Back to our devastatingly empty apartment; there was a message on the phone. It was from my mum.

  Flavier. Are you all right, sweetie? I’ve just seen the news. You poor boys. Give me a call when you get a chance. You know where I am if you need me. Love you.

  My mum’s words felled me. I slid down the wall and hit the floor. My own mother had watched us fucking. Could it get any more humiliating?

  And finally the penny dropped.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t seen it from Sven’s perspective. Everyone knew we were together. I’d always kind of ignored that they would also know what we did in private, but I hadn’t ever thought about it, felt it—the public spectacle of our intimacy. But at least I could take responsibility for the violation of my own privacy. In Sven’s eyes, I’d sold us as part of the band’s package, by putting us second, even just for that one fleeting moment where I didn’t care enough, and allowed such a stupid mistake to occur.

  I needed to tell him, to beg for his forgiveness, try and stop him from leaving. I didn’t know if it would work, but I couldn’t give up without a fight. He was worth more than that. He was my everything, and I owed it to him to tell the truth.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Five

  Upload completed.

  I’d fallen asleep in my office chair and was stiff everywhere bar one place. No morning glory. No fucking glory at all.
I felt wretched and didn’t smell much better. I stripped off, showered, shaved, dressed, all on autopilot, I was so damn tired. I’d been up most of the night, writing that song and recording a rudimentary backing track. I didn’t know if it was any good, or if anyone else would think it was, but so long as there was one person who got it…that was the only thing that counted.

  I spent the morning talking to my mum on the landline and dodging Mica’s calls to my mobile. I’d fucked her over, and she had every right to be angry, but some things were bigger than the band. I didn’t feel any more hopeful than I had yesterday, though at least I could say I tried.

  After Mica, Dan called. He left a voicemail with more swear words than not, but he was OK. I’d sent both him and Jon texts last night to warn them what I was going to do. I played up that it might even turn out to be good for the band, though it didn’t matter to me if it was or it wasn’t.

  Sven didn’t call. I’d hoped he would. I had no way of knowing if he’d see the video. I just knew that text messages, voicemails, emails—none of those would have got through to him. So I’d written him a song. It wasn’t great. It wasn’t even the kind of stuff the band played, which was pop rock—a bit bleak here and there, a few power chords, but generally light and syrupy with lots of sing-along choruses and great hook lines. The song I’d recorded was more a classic ballad with a hint of flower power. Or I thought that was what it sounded like, but I honestly couldn’t remember.

  I made coffee and took a cup through to the office/studio, psyching myself up to listen back to what I’d produced. I’d learned my lesson and had checked at least five times that what I was uploading was my song for Sven and not us screwing in the shower or something. Nonetheless I checked again now. Yes, definitely the right video. I hit play, and sat back, watching the slideshow of Sven’s uni days, modelling fashion students’ designs, crazy hairstyles, posing for my arty films with their shaky-camera, out-of-focus, sepia-indulgent pretentiousness. So often he was helplessly laughing, at me, and I’d been offended, but later he’d told me it was because I always looked so serious behind the camera.